Could it be any harder
by Lisa7
Summary: Spike thinks about Buffy, set sometime after "The Gift."


Title: Could it be any harder

Feedback: (please) lisagaill@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: None of the characters associated with BTVS belong to me.

Authors Note: Okay, so here's the deal. I wrote this some time ago and there is more to it, but I have no intentions of finishing it. I thought this first part worked well as a stand alone. If I am misguided in my thoughts, please, let me know! 

It should be noted that I sometimes have problems with characterization. I would rather write the characters the way I think they should be instead of the way they are. 

The name of the story comes from The Calling's song of the same name, I don't own it either.

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He wasn't even exactly sure of his feelings until that moment. That instantaneous moment that lived on in his mind and killed the heart and soul that he didn't have. Before, he would tell her that he loved her, mostly because he didn't know what else to call it, what name to give the feelings he had, plus, he knew if he told her he loved her then she wouldn't kill him…she would be pissed, but she wouldn't kill him. At the time it was a self-preservation tactic. But, now, now, he knew, he would never—had never loved anyone in the way that he loved her.  

He had never longed for anyone the way he longed for her.

That's why he snuck into her room every night and slept in her bed, where he dreamt of her. That's why he felt her everywhere he went, why he wept for her everyday. That's why his non-existent soul cried out for her. Her scent still lingered in the room, not yet tainted by the musty smell of time. Not yet destroyed by the cruel hands of fate, not like her life had been. Her friends had not descended the threshold yet, so they didn't tamper with the place that was uniquely her. Even Dawn had resisted crossing that invisible barrier. It was as if walking into that room and not seeing her in it would make it real, make it tangible and all together frightening. He laughed to himself, this was probably the place she spent the least amount of time, but this was the place they all avoided, all but him, he stayed and wept.

At times he thought he could actually feel her, see her, taste her, but then the moment would shatter like delicate glass and reality would come crashing down around him, take hold of his heart like a glove that fit too close, the fear, the loneliness that punctuated his days until he felt like he couldn't go on, that he wouldn't go on. There had been more than one time in the year since she had left that he didn't think he would go on, he had the stake ready, the door open—but then, something would catch his eye, a movement or a brush of wind across his neck and he would close the door and put down the stake. He couldn't give up, he wouldn't, not now.

Buffy's friends had long ago accepted him, welcomed him into their tight circle, their protective embrace. He thought at first it was only because they needed someone to patrol for them, someone stronger than they were. But, eventually, he had come to realize that it was more than that, they were all connected now, bound by the loss that never seemed to end. Whatever person said that loss became easier with time was an idiot. The wound was as fresh now as it was on that day.  They trusted him, with Dawn, with everything and that was the greatest gift they could have given him, aside from the one that no one could give him back.

Things were not as quiet as they should have been, considering the fact that things stereotypically slowed down after an apocalyptic battle. Unfortunately, they didn't live in a typical world and each night Spike and the others would venture out into the darkness and do what they were never meant to do. They were never meant to know what lurked in the dark shadows; they were supposed to live their lives in blissful ignorance. They didn't though, and so they faced their fears and fought against the monsters, the vampires, and the forces of darkness. He was one the things they fought so hard to rid the world of. He wasn't supposed to be there, by all accounts he should have been dead a very long time ago, but by some sick twist of fate, he was there, mourning for the girl that gave him his life back.

Every night he wanted for nothing more than to see her face, just one more time, just for one more instant. Even if she would have been doing nothing more than kicking his ass or worse, at least she would have been alive, and he wouldn't be alone.  He cursed himself, it wasn't as if he wasn't alone when she was alive, she wouldn't give him the opportunity to even try. If she was there, he told himself, then he would have a chance. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself of that truth, he knew it wasn't. It was all moot point anyway, because she wasn't there. She would never be again.

During patrol, he swore sometimes he could actually feel her, talk to her. He figured it was because that was where they were connected, bound by the darkness and the evil she was destined to fight and he was destined to become. He did talk to her, often, actually. He would visit her grave, sit and tell her about Dawn, her friends, whatever was going on. Some nights he would sit and whisper his love to the wind, hoping with everything he had in him that she would hear him and that she understood and believed him. He begged for forgiveness for letting her down, for not fulfilling his promises to her. He would curse the heavens, the hells and the stars. He would lay parallel with her body, buried six feet under. He listened to the wind rushing by, listen to the words it whispered to him and felt her.


End file.
